I don’t think I’ve met, or even heard of, a single person who is happy doing whatever she is doing.
Almost everyone I know wants to change jobs, change careers, change cities, exchange lives.
The exceptions are the ones who have accepted that driving Corollas to and from shiny glass ghettos of Gurgaon was their dream, or imagine themselves breaking free soon, once they have ‘enough’ money, to open a fucking café or something. Delusions parading as ambitions.
Some days are bad. Some days are worse than all the bad ones put together.
There should be no reason for it. It’s not like I have it too bad. Compared to about 90% of the country, I have it unbelievably fantastic, in fact. But if you’re not after something as tastelessly tangible as money, it seems impossible to ever be satisfied.
Taking a walk, as I do each fiery afternoon, I walked into a boutique run by some French people. The shop was full of junk which foreigners and rich folk might call ‘Indian chic’. You know: old Bollywood posters, vintage Eveready ads, painted lanterns. All sorts of shit your mother sold to the kabaadi a decade ago.
Which gave me an idea I spent the rest of the afternoon nurturing. Build a network of kabaadi-walas; source all this trash for peanuts; paint it in bright, contrasting colours; sell it all in a little shop in Paris. The shop could also sell samosas and jalebis, screen Sunny Deol movies on weekends, and live stream shaadis. Okay, maybe not. But everything for Indophiles or expats desperate for fried aloo.
I re-read Wikipedia and Wikitravel for Paris. (Not the first time I’ve had such a thought. Yesterday was spent exploring Sydney.) Checked the airfares and immigration processes. Dug out the French with Michel Thomas CDs. Smoked.
For now, I must get back to writing mailers to privileged customers of a friendly bank; back to paying bills and EMIs and petrol surcharges.
Mais demain, je vais rever encore.